While the other two men are distracted with the note, Stiles stares long and hard at the skeleton in the coffin. There’s a furrow to his brow, a pensive look that doesn’t fade. Something isn’t right here. A handful of spaghetti later, he’s turning around to beam at Apollo and Heiji; he literally just decorated the skeleton’s head with spaghetti hair. Why does anyone take this child anywhere.

“It usually takes a few years for a body to decompose,” he remarks, thinking of what he knows from his father’s line of work. “If that Aloysaurus guy—” It isn’t a dinosaur, Stiles. “—was talking about her, then either she’s been free for ages or someone recently opened it. Maybe. I guess it’s dependent on what the hell a spirit jar actually is.”